The McKee Rave
by Ariyah
Summary: Tyrone Mitchell (or "Wasabi" as he will later be known to his friends) has just found out how strange things can get when you advertise on Fujiji. Such as old yellow vans in the possession of kind-of intimidating, potential gangsters. Pre-BH6, post-WS. By Ariel of Narnia. (May be extended later, we'll see.)
**Disclaimer:** I'd be honoured to have my face cartoonized to appear in a Disney/Marvel film. But that's happened as many times as I've cameo'ed in live-action Marvel films, so. The only things I do own are the "real name" I've given Wasabi and his mom. Oh, and my hare-brained thought that somehow snowballed into this.

* * *

There was a ring of the doorbell at the Mitchell residence.

"I'll get it, Mom. It's probably the car."

Leslee nodded and smiled. "Go on then, Ty."

She watched her boy leave the room and patted down another immaculately folded shirt into his suitcase. "Her boy", indeed, full-grown and off to the San Fransokyo Institute of Technology in just a couple days. On a scholarship too – a little one, perhaps, but she knew he had a lot of competition, so even a small scholarship was a token of his worthiness to attend. She opened his closet to fetch his suit. _Yes_ , she told herself as she ran her fingers over the suit's broad shoulders, _my boy's all grown up_. Leslee peeked out the window, where she could see Tyrone and the seller discussing the vehicle. She paused. _Is that…?_

 _..._

The vehicle was an unimpressive, old – not cool-old, but outdated-old –, yellow thing with hardly a hood and even less of a trunk, enforcing the van's already-boxy shape. _What was I thinking?!_ Tyrone chastised himself. _This is what I get for advertising on Fujiji. And for rejecting all other responses for this too-good-to-be-true one. Now it's too late to find something else!_ The car's owner was more impressive, in a potential-gangster sort of way. He was tall like Tyrone, dressed in black, and not particularly personable. Or maybe he just seemed that way with his very serious mouth and the concealment afforded by his large sunglasses and facial hair. At any rate, he didn't seem the type to own a vehicle like this.

"She's a limited-edition McKee Rave," he was saying. "You could almost say that line was a custom make. Highly specialized, very hard to lay hands on."

"Specialized?" Tyrone asked.

The owner – Doyle was what he introduced himself as – laid a hand, almost reverently, on the van's roof. "The Rave performed very well in test runs before the line was released. I know from experience that the results were not exaggerated."

"It's been in accidents?" _How am I supposed to trust this thing?! What if it breaks down? Or falls apart?_

Doyle passed his hand over a dent in the back-right door. "What you see here is the aftermath of a nigh-on T-boning. Even, say, the McKee Sahara would have taken greater damage at that hit."

 _Huh. That's pretty good, I guess. Still –_

"But she hasn't seen much damage and I've always had her fixed up good and proper. You said you were going off to university in the next day or two, right?"

"Thursday."

"I know a good mechanic just down the way. I'll have that dent fixed up before you leave Thursday."

"I haven't said I'll buy the car yet," Tyrone reminded him.

Doyle paused for a moment to regard him. At least, Tyrone thought that's what he did, but the pause was too brief to really be sure. "If you want to hop into the driver's side, I'll show you some of the interior features."

Tyrone opened the driver's door and immediately looked for a way to adjust the seat. To his surprise, there were no levers, just buttons to direct the seat's mechanisms. Definitely not what he expected from this obviously older vehicle.

Doyle leaned over to slide the key into the ignition. "Now, most of the car is your standard stuff – mirror controls, wipers, fuel efficiency, all that – but this is where the real features are…." He navigated the touchscreen above the radio and went on about the smart GPS that analyzed traffic, the basic self-diagnosis system that would notify of necessary fill-ups or repairs, how it had "pretty much everything except Bluetooth, Wi-Fi, and an AI".

Tyrone chuckled along at the joke and decided not to mention the fact that he could clearly see symbols for Bluetooth and Wi-Fi on the screen. Besides, he had something else he wanted to bring up. "So how old is this car, exactly?" Doyle turned to look at him. The way he did so, for whatever reason, creeped out Tyrone a little.

"Almost twenty years."

He could feel his eyes bug. "So… you just souped it up?"

Doyle raised a hand palm-up in a sort of shrug. "It's a good car. Why get rid of it when all it needs are a few upgrades?"

 _If that's the case…._ "May I ask why you _are_ selling it now?"

Doyle's hand shrugged again. "I've had to cut back on some things. Economies have to be made. Just the way it is."

 _Oh. Maybe I shouldn't have asked._ "Mind if I take it for a test drive?"

Doyle almost smiled. "Be my guest."

 _..._

It was nearly noon on Thursday. "He said he'd be here half an hour ago," Tyrone announced to the living room window.

Leslee quit her pacing to lay a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe he just got held up."

"Or the car broke down."

"You said it seemed alright, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but it _is_ old…."

Leslee turned him to face her. "He will come and you'll make it to the university safe and in plenty of time to set up your dorm room before orientation tomorrow."

His shoulders relaxed under her touch. "Thanks, Mom." The doorbell rang and they both looked out the window to see the boxy McKee Rave sitting on the curb. "I'll get it."

Leslee stepped into the kitchen to prepare a take-out box with jasmine rice, stir-fry, wasabi, and freshly-fried chicken – Tyrone's favourite way of marrying Asian and Southern cuisine. She sighed as – for the thousandth time – it sunk in that she wouldn't see him for weeks at a time.

"I'm ready, Mom."

Tyrone stood before her, suitcase at his side and duffel bag on his shoulder. _But I'm not sure I am_ , she said to herself with a wistful sigh. "Well, let's get you off then!" she said, rounding the counter and snatching up his messenger bag from the dining table.

"Oh! I'll take that, I forgot all about it."

Leslee hefted the bag. "Nonsense. Go on and pack up the car!" Tyrone obeyed and she followed him out. Suddenly, the weight of the bag was lifted away entirely.

"Allow me." Still wearing the sunglasses and black jacket from a couple days back, the seller shouldered the bag himself and offered a crooked smile.

Leslee set a hand over her heart for a moment, but all she said was, "Thank you," before the two of them joined Tyrone at the vehicle where he was checking off a list on his notepad.

"Suitcase, check. Duffel, check. Tool chest… is in the back, check." He took the messenger bag from the seller and set it on the passenger seat. "Laptop, power cord, etcetera, check."

"And lunch, check," Leslee finished for him. She watched his eyes light up when he checked the contents of the take-out box. "Best of both worlds, just the way you like it."

The seller interrupted with a deep sniff. "Nothing like a good, Southern-fried chicken made with love."

Leslee eyed him, then ignored him when Tyrone wrapped her in a big hug. "Thanks, Mom. For everything."

"Drive safe, Ty. Do well and make friends. Love you."

"I love you too." Then to the seller, "Pleasure doing business with you, Mr Doyle."

The seller nodded. "Take care."

Tyrone got into his new-old car and it was all Leslee could do to hold back the tears that threatened to spill on her. Only when the ugly yellow thing had turned a corner did she stop waving to wipe at her eyes. The seller likewise no longer looked to the street, but at her. She sniffled and gave him a bit of a chuckle. "It wasn't supposed to be this way, you know."

"I know."

"You didn't tell him, did you?"

"No."

She drew back her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye – or she would have, had the glasses not prevented her. "It's been a long time, Nick."

He nodded ever-so-slightly. "Almost twenty years."

She swallowed. Hard. They stood there for a minute more before she finally said, "I've got more of that chicken inside. Just the way you liked it."

His crooked smile returned. "Now how can a man say no to that?"

She smiled back and led him inside, where he removed his glasses and allowed her to look him in his one good eye.

* * *

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